


Academic Disputes

by pomegrenadier



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, Gen, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Korriban, Murder, Suicidal Thoughts, waaaaay beyond canon-typical violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-17
Updated: 2018-05-17
Packaged: 2019-05-08 09:04:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14690847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pomegrenadier/pseuds/pomegrenadier
Summary: He could die here. He could die and it would be over. No more fighting. No more fear.





	Academic Disputes

Dolgis makes his move the evening after Straik’s latest little stunt down in the tombs. No sense waiting—or letting the bastard gloat about it. Vemrin’s running out of time to land that apprenticeship with Darth Baras, and _some people_ keep getting handed easy wins. He shadows Straik out of the library, then jumps him a few corridors down, dragging the smaller acolyte into an empty chamber.

If this ends the way Dolgis hopes it will, better to avoid witnesses.

Straik fights back, of course, but all that fancy _breeding_ can’t break him out of Dolgis’s grip. He thrashes like a mawfish on the hook, snarling and writhing, helpless.

“Last warning. Stay out of Vemrin’s way,” Dolgis growls. He presses his knife to the corner of Straik’s mouth and _pulls_.

Straik shrieks. Red blood—human after all—pours from the wound, spills hot and metallic over Dolgis’s fingers.

Dolgis shoves him away. He crumples to the floor in a pathetic heap. “Sobrik smile,” says Dolgis. “Or half of one, at least. A little taste of Balmorra. But cross us again and I won’t stop at making both sides match.”

Straik laughs as he rolls onto his back. He raises his head to look up at Dolgis, right side of his face hanging wide open. “What, you’ll kill me?” he gurgles.

“That’s right, pretty boy,” Dolgis says, and he kicks Straik in the ribs.

Straik yowls and recoils. The Force crackles and twists around him. Dolgis can’t sense any fear, though, not really—just pain, and hatred, and a sick exhilaration that oozes into his own mind like poison. Straik sucks in a breath, coughs, spits blood. “Please, let’s skip to that bit, before I die of _boredom_.”

“You want to die, huh?” says Dolgis.

Straik giggles, wet and unsteady and wrong—

**o.O.o**

He could die here. He could die and it would be over. No more fighting. No more fear.

Meliah would move on. Or perhaps she wouldn’t; perhaps she’d resent the loss of the chance to kill him herself—no, she’s had more than enough time and opportunity; she wants him to die, but he’s not worth the effort to kill personally. Another game. Die, and she’ll be rid of him; live, and he’ll be what she made of him.

Meliah might actually be pleased that some wretched nobody managed to kill him.

It would take so little to push Dolgis. So very little. _Dun möch_ inverted: a weapon held to his own throat. Life is cheap; his life is worth even less.

But to live. To _live_ …

What does he have to lose? What’s one more murder to a murderer?

He could die here, but—

**o.O.o**

Slowly, Straik pushes himself up onto hands and knees. Blood and saliva patter to the floor. “You know … I’m not so sure anymore.”

Straik snaps up a hand and Dolgis slams into the wall behind him, head bashing against duracrete, stars exploding in his vision. Something wrenches at his right arm. It twists. Splinters. The knife falls. He can’t move and he can’t breathe through the pressure on his chest and his bones are cracking and and Straik is standing up, hand still outstretched, stalking towards him with a red-soaked grin splitting his face.

“Thank you, Dolgis,” Straik says. “I think we’ve both learned valuable lessons, today.”

Dolgis whimpers.

Straik flicks his wrist.

**o.O.o**

“He caught you off guard,” Tremel says. “You _allowed_ him to catch you off guard. I don’t think you’re taking this seriously, acolyte.”

“I’m not dead, so I’d count it as a win,” Evren says brightly.

Tremel backhands him. His ring nearly catches on the stitches holding Evren’s mouth together. Evren twists the cry of pain into laughter, runs his tongue over the still-raw edges of the knife wound. “It won’t happen again, Overseer.”

“Obviously, given that you killed him. What concerns me is your recklessness. The Empire is dying, acolyte. Our blood fades, our power wanes. That you are fortunate enough to carry the legacy of the true Sith is not merely a personal advantage—it is essential to our future. And yet you treat yourself, your heritage, as if it’s all some great cosmic _joke_.”

Evren swallows. The metallic taste doesn’t go away. It coats his teeth and tongue. “I understand, Overseer,” he murmurs.

“Then act like it.”

“Yes, Overseer.”

Tremel eyes him for a moment, then nods. “Dismissed.”

Evren bows low, just a degree shy of too deep, and turns to leave.

“Oh, and acolyte? The infirmary will not be providing further kolto treatments. Consider it a lesson in responsibility.”

He keeps walking. It’s only his face, and that’s been made into a _lesson_ once already.

**o.O.o**

_end_


End file.
